


Remembrances at the End of All Things

by Sid Kemp (SidKemp)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Catholicism, Christianity, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidKemp/pseuds/Sid%20Kemp
Summary: Long after Frodo, Bilbo, and Sam arrive in the undying lands, things begin to change. Dawn is coming.





	Remembrances at the End of All Things

“How did it come to you?” a gentle voice asked in the dark.

The light grew, and yet it was still dim. Five of them stood in a circle on a plain floor. The faintest light came from above, and all was grey. There were no objects, no walls. The five were dressed in shapeless robes. One was small and thin, as if he once had been a starveling. The next was a bit larger, but firm and straight. The next was much the same, but rounder, older, with a look of complacent joy on his face. The next was almost twice the size of the round one, and had the bearing of a mighty warrior. But the last towered above him, and seemed to be the memory of one who carried a fell light and a fierce flame.

At last, the round one spoke. “It came to me quite by accident. A most improbable occurrence, it seems. I had been dropped after a chase, fallen and hit my head. I awoke in a dark tunnel deep beneath a mountain and fumbled around. It touched my hand in the dark. I put it in my pocket. I was dazed, I think. I barely remembered it later.”

“You stole it from me,” sniveled the smallest one. “I grant you found it after I dropped it, but it was _mine,_ and you did not return it to me. I could have killed you for that.”

“As I recall, you would have killed me just because I was plump and a bit tastier than an orc.”

“It is so.” The little one fell silent.

“And how did you come by it?”

“I found it - it was gift. It was in the mud of the river. My cousin found it, but I wanted it. I murdered. I took it.”

“I came by it in war,” said the tall one. “There were many deaths that day, but no murder. I struck it from the hand of my the one who slayed my father. A wise one told me to cast it into the Fire, but I did not listen. I was full of grief and greed and vengeance, and I sought to keep it as weregild for my father. But it betrayed me.”

“Betrayal was its very nature. I know. I made it to betray the elves. I took the fire of the great mountain and forged it into gold and cast it with spells of power and doom. It was my greatest making.”

“Your most evil,” said one who had not spoken.

“Yes, my most evil.”

“I inherited it. The one who found it in the cave grew old and tired. He passed it on, with great struggle, and I bore it for a while. At the very end, I claimed it, or rather It claimed me.”

“I took it back,” said the starveling. “I was the last Lord of the Ring.”

“I never wanted it,” said the thin one. “I wished I could have nothing to do with it, and wanted only to get rid of it.”

“I had no idea what it was, or how it was twisting me, mind, body, and soul,” said the round one.

“It controlled me, then betrayed me,” said the warrior.

“It has shown me my folly,” said the dark one.

The light grew. Color came into the world. The floor became a great valley of green grass. A stream wound on one side. Distant mountains ringed them round in a long, oval valley. White-topped peaks glimmered close to the north and south, but the eastern and western ridges were low in the distance. The tiniest rays of rose dawn splashed from the East while, in the West, dark blue velvet was sprinkled with stars. The sweet inquirer said, “I was its enemy. May I join you?”

Five voices spoke as one, saying, “Welcome.”

He stood with them, robed in white, but with a mantle of grey. “Do you remember your names?”

“I was Bilbo Baggins.”

“And I Frodo Baggins, your heir.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Baggins. The Shire. We hates it forever.’ Sorry about that.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Frodo. “Odd. I have ten fingers now.”

“And I do not feel thin and stretched. I could do with a good meal, and enjoy it.”

“I still like fish. I’d be willing to try it boiled, with taters, though.”

They all laughed.

“I am not pierced with orc arrow, nor drowned,” said the warrior.

The one who towered above them said, “I too, have ten fingers. And much more than that has been healed.”

“Much more, indeed,” said the gentle enquirer. “Do you know the time it is now?”

“The end of all things,” said Frodo, “but not as Samwise feared it.”

“May I join you?” said a stout voice. “I was a Ring-bearer, if only for a little while. I make good taters.”

“Oh, Sam,” said Frodo as they embraced.

“Your hand, Mr. Frodo. It is so good to see it healed.”

“Samwise!” said Bilbo with delight. “Mayor seven times. You truly made something of yourself. Old Hamfast is proud of his son, I’m sure.”

“Indeed! Now is the age of humble pride,” said Gandalf. “All is healed.”

“All?” asked the tall one.

“Yes, even your Master. No longer are you Sauron, but Mairon once again. And Morgoth is again, and forever, Melkor. The end of all things has come, and the beginning.”

The light grew as if dawn was closing in. With the breeze of dawn came not an echo, but a foreshadowing of the Music that was to come.

“This time, I shall not forge a Ring.”

“This time I shall not cut it from your hand.”

“The Shire is good enough for me, no more adventures!”

“If we wander, it will be with the elves, perhaps to visit the dwarves.”

“No more murder. No more raw fish. No more darkness.”

“Catch us some fish. I’ll dig up the taters and get us a good first breakfast.”

And the dawn came.

**Author's Note:**

> At one point, in writing _Morgoth’s Ring,_ Tolkien proposed a very different end of the world from the one in this work before the world is reborn. But he chose to treat that as only an idea, and not as canon. So, in the Silmarillion, he wrote of all times after the beginning of the Fourth Age, that no one knows the history of these later times. Later in his life, as we see in his letters, Tolkien grew more and more open to universal salvation, and even wondered about the salvation of orcs. His vision of the best of Arda seemed to grow brighter in all ways, as evidenced by the ever-changing, ever more pure story of Galadriel. In this spirit, I write of the end of Middle-earth, which is our own Earth, in the spirit of universal salvation.


End file.
